


September 2006: Casual Coffee Shop Book-Stalking

by Jane0Doh



Series: The Hand of God [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Canon Compliant - Criminal Minds, Doctor Sam Winchester, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-26 03:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13849176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane0Doh/pseuds/Jane0Doh
Summary: The one where Sam and Spencer meet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This marks the beginning of a long, 3 part series that I am working on, which will contain a bunch of short stories that follow a semi-linear plot. 
> 
> I am basing it in the Criminal Minds universe, meaning there is NO supernatural. No monsters, no demons, no angels... just criminals and crazy people. However, hunting and the "family business" will still come up, and this series will loosely follow the course of events pre-season one of Supernatural. All of that will be expounded and explained in later stories, I promise! It's a major plot point. So this means that all of the CM characters are their regular selves, while all of the Supernatural characters are AU versions of themselves, fitting into the CM universe. 
> 
> Anyways, this is a weird little meet-cute for Spencer and Sam, the first chapter from Spencer's POV, the second from Sam's. I hope you enjoy, and keep your eyes peeled for the next update in the series!

_Monday, September 4th, 2006:_

That stranger was staring at him again.

Spencer chewed his lip nervously, trying to angle his body so he could glance over at the man in the corner of the coffeehouse without him seeing. To his dismay, the stranger was still watching him over the rim of his coffee cup, averting his gaze when he realized Spencer was looking back at him.

He’d been staring all last week, as well. Spencer noticed him right off the bat as he walked into his favorite coffeeshop, an establishment in which he had become a permanent fixture. Despite being a profiler and a student of human behaviour, it was impossible _not_ to notice the man who kept staring at him: he was _tall._ Intimidatingly so. He had to be at least six-foot-five, though Spencer had only seen him standing a handful of times. Most mornings he was already seated with his coffee by the time Spencer walked in, lounging in one of the over-stuffed armchairs along the back wall of the Red Brick Coffeehouse.

He had a commanding presence about him, even though Spencer never heard him speak. He seemed important in his passivity, in the way he sat and sipped his coffee, but oddly enough he didn’t seem aware of it. His posture, with his slouched shoulders and his downturned chin, showed nothing but an intrinsic subservience, a lack of self confidence and a desire to blend in that seemed strange, coming from a man his size and build. He looked as though he should be at the top of his field, whatever it was he did for a living, and that he should be proud to be so, but instead, he acted a little lost… a little tentative, like he needed guidance.

He was definitely an enigma, and would be intriguing if his constant staring wasn’t so damn _frustrating_.

Spencer had a routine. He stopped by this coffeeshop every morning on his way to work, despite the fact it’s fifteen-minutes out of his way, because they have, to his palate at least, the best coffee in DC. Every weekday for the past year he’d walk through their double doors at six a.m. sharp, still groggily shaking the haze of sleep from his brain and desperate for his caffeine fix. He didn’t even need to order anymore: his triple shot americano with two pumps vanilla and lactose free milk was always waiting for him when he stumbled his way to the counter.

There was always a line at the cash, however, so as he waited to pay, he usually pulled out a book. No matter what he’s reading, he could get through at least a dozen or so pages while waiting for the woman behind the counter (a sweet old lady, but dreadfully slow; most likely attributed to the advanced arthritis in her knuckles) struggled to count out change. He’d read for a bit, pay for his coffee and leave, just in time to catch the six-thirty train if he walked quickly.

That’s how his mornings went, every weekday.

It has been his routine since he started at the BAU, and he’d grown quite fond of it.

So, he didn’t take kindly to this creepy giant mucking it up.

Maybe it wouldn’t come off as such a big deal if this guy didn’t seem like a total jerk. Besides being tall, he was muscular, dressed in sweats and a tee-shirt most days and seemingly stopping in for a coffee after his morning run, so Spencer just automatically assumed he was some jock asshole.

And he didn’t _just_ stare; he’d only do so when he thought Spencer wasn’t paying attention, and the second Spencer would glance up from his book, the stranger would look away. It all seemed a little too familiar for his liking, hearkening back to Spencer’s horrid high-school memories of walking into the cafeteria to a sea of giggles and harsh whispers, only to have them cut out and everyone avert their gaze when he tried to make eye contact.

And this marked the third weekday morning he’s seen this guy here. Spencer frowned as he paid for his coffee, shoving his well-loved copy of _Blood Meridian_ back into his bag and casting once last damning glare over at the stranger in the corner. Hopefully, with any luck, this would be the last time he’d have to see him there.

 

_Friday, September 8th, 2006:_

Four days.

Every morning for the past _four days_ that jerk had been in _Spencer's_ coffee shop, and every morning, he’d been eyeballing him.

He spotted the man sitting in his usual chair, long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, his stupid eyebrows furrowed in stupid concentration as he read his stupid book. Spencer grabbed his coffee with a little more ferocity than necessary, murmuring a thank you to Lisa as he took his place in line, but try as he might he couldn’t tear his gaze from the infuriating stranger, who was flipping through the pages of his book at breakneck speed.

This was the first time Spencer had seen him read anything, and though it wasn’t odd to see people reading books in coffee shops (Spencer did so every morning), it was strange that he was reading _Blood Meridian_. It was one of Cormac McCarthy’s most difficult novels, an entirely strenuous book that would not prove enjoyable for the casual reader, but beyond that, it was the same novel that Spencer had been reading on Monday. He’d finished it that same day, sometime between arriving at the office and the end of his lunch break, and he clearly remembered reading it in the café that morning, as well.

Pulling _Simulacra and Simulation_ from his bag, Spencer sipped at his coffee, glancing angrily up from the pages towards the strange man when he felt the heat of his gaze fall on him again. The instant Spencer looked up, the stranger looked down, a flush stealing across his cheeks, and the ire in Spencer’s stomach burned hot when he noticed how quickly the man was flipping through his own impossibly difficult novel.

There was no way he could actually read that fast, Spencer decided with an irritable huff. He’d pegged him as some asshole jock the first day he saw him, and based on his attitude, the staring and now his choice of literature, Spencer was certain he was correct in his initial assumption. Somethings never change, apparently: he’d been out of high-school since he was twelve, but once again he found himself tormented and teased by some jerk he didn’t even know, somewhere he was supposed to feel at ease. It was illogical, maybe even a little self-centered, but Spencer was certain this guy was trying to fuck with him.

As he paid for his coffee, Spencer made sure to showcase the cover of the philosophical treatise he had been attempting to read, taking his time slipping it back in his bag. If this guy wanted to stalk him through books in an attempt to get under his skin, so be it. He’d have a hell of a time finding a copy of Jean Baudrillard’s work in English, much less pretending to understand it.

 

_Monday, September 11th, 2006:_

That _jerk_.

Spencer hovered in the doorway to the café, struck dumb and unmoving until the patron behind him shooed him out of the way.

Apparently, Tall Guy likes Postmodern philosophy.

Apparently, he likes it so much he has no problem devouring it, spending less than a minute or two per page, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowed in concentration as his coffee sat forgotten on the small table beside him.

How, Spencer wondered as he got in line, not even bothering to hide the fact he was staring, did this guy manage to find a translation and get three quarters of the way through it in one day? He paid Lori without looking at her, muttering a thank you.

_Who was this guy?_

Storming out of the café, Spencer let the door slam shut behind him, already formulating a plan of attack in his head. If that’s how Tall guy wanted to do this, then fine, Spencer could play along. But he clearly didn’t know who he was messing with.

 

_Tuesday, September 12th, 2006:_

Tall Guy seemed thrown for a loop when Spencer pulled out _Engineering and the Mind's Eye_ the next day.

Feeling smug, like he’d finally bested him, Spencer decided to spend a little extra time in the café that morning, sitting at a nearby table and reading leisurely.

He was almost certain that, come tomorrow, his kind-of, sort-of stalker wouldn’t be bothering him anymore.

 

_Wednesday, September 13th, 2006:_

Or not.

Tall Guy was reading the same book Spencer was yesterday and, much to his chagrin, he seemed genuinely interested in it.

He was a remarkably fast reader, too. Judging by his posture, the way his eyes were moving across the page and the rhythmic tapping of his foot, this guy wasn’t just pretending to read, or skimming through. He understood it, and was completely engrossed, so much so that when a woman bumped into the table his coffee was resting on, he didn’t react. He didn’t even move. And he hadn’t looked up from his book once, not even to stare at Spencer, as he was often inclined to do.

How was this guy keeping up with him, if he was _actually_ reading the books? Spencer’s taste in literature was varied and difficult. He liked a challenge for the most part, and only read pulpy throw away novels when he needed some downtime, when his brain was circling the drain. And yet, here was this random man, whom Spencer had just assumed was some dumb jerk, managing to match his pace and read the same books as him.  

He couldn’t even be mad anymore.

Now he was curious.

Spencer made a show of grabbing his coffee, thanking Lisa loudly so Tall Guy would look up at him, before pulling out a book of his own from his bag. This time around, he’d grabbed an old favorite from his bookshelf for the sole purpose of trying to stump this guy, should he still be insisting on copying his book selections:

_L'Être et le néant: Essai d'ontologie phénoménologique._

For once, Spencer couldn’t wait until the next morning.

_Thursday, September 14th, 2006:_

Tall Guy reads French.

Fascinating.

The shoe was on the other foot now, Spencer mused, staring at the other man. He was sitting in the corner of the coffee shop, and Spencer watched intently the way his hazel eyes flitted across the page, listening to the steady tap of his heel on the wooden floor.

Suddenly, the man looked up from his book and their eyes locked, the stranger catching _him_ staring for once, if only momentarily. Spencer dropped his gaze, looking back at the book he held open in one hand, some pulpy piece of science fiction, though he couldn’t concentrate long enough to read a single word. 

Spencer left the shop that day completely flummoxed, actively ignoring the spark of electricity that ricocheted through him when their eyes met over their respective books, as well as the churning feeling in his stomach that only made itself known the second the strange man had hit him with that shy little smile.

He had enough to worry about already.

 

_Saturday, September 16th, 2006:_

“What’s wrong with you?”

Spencer looked up at JJ with a start. She'd caught him red handed, brooding on their flight from Quantico to Ozona, Texas. While the rest of the team was bemoaning the loss of their weekend, Spencer was mentally sifting through the toughest books he owned, in every language he understood, in an attempt to come up with something that would finally stump his mystery man. He must have seemed particularly gloomy, if JJ felt she needed to check on him.

He appreciated the concern, but he had no idea how to begin explaining what his problem was. The whole situation was absurd, and add to it the fact that he just discovered he was definitely attracted to his maybe-kind-of stalker, and she would think he was absolutely nuts. “Nothing,” he settled on, giving her what he hoped was a convincing enough smile to get her to accept his explanation, and move on.

It wasn’t.

She sat down across from him with a sigh, and leaning over the table, told him, “You’ve been weird all week. Spill it.”

He felt like a child again, telling on his school-yard bullies to their teacher, and Spencer sunk down into his seat as he murmured, “It’s just this guy. He's been there every morning, at the coffee shop I like to go to…”

To her credit, she listened to the whole story with an air of sincerity, nodding along and trying to empathize. But the second he was done, wrapping up with an emphatic declaration that this guy “even reads French!” she finally cracked a smile.

“Why don’t you just go to another café if he's bothering you so much?” she asked.

Spencer pulled a face. “I’ve been going there every day since I’ve lived in DC,” he said, “and if this guy thinks he can just show up and creep me out to the point of me taking my business elsewhere, he’s sorely mistaken.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he said with a huff, “I got there first.”

“Well, I haven’t seen him, so I can’t say for sure,” JJ said, trying and failing to keep her amusement in check, “but it sounds to me like he’s not _trying_ to creep you out.”

“What is it then?” Spencer asked.

“It sounds like he might have a crush on you,” she said, shrugging her shoulders when he looked at her dubiously, “Granted, he’s picked a really uncomfortable way of showing it, but maybe he’s just really shy?”

Spencer shook his head. There was no way, absolutely no way that anyone could be so socially inept that they’d think book-stalking is the best way to go about meeting someone. Normally he wasn’t one to talk about social aptitude, but even _he_ knew that there were better ways to start a dialogue with someone that wouldn’t outright scare them away, or piss them off.

And he didn’t even want to touch on the thrill of excitement he felt at JJ’s conclusion. The mere thought that someone who looked like this mystery guy, who enjoyed technical books and classics alike, and who could keep pace with Spencer while reading philosophical treatise in its original French, would be interested in _him_ , sent his heart fluttering in his chest.

“Either way,” JJ said, interrupting his thought spiral before it could get out of control, “You should at least talk to him. If it turns out he really is a creep, then you can tell him off, but you have to do something, or else you’re gonna be stuck looking for a different coffee shop.”

“No way,” he said, “they have the best coffee in the city.”

She quirked her brow, and Spencer sighed.

“You’re right,” he admitted, “I’ll talk to him when we get back.”

“Good,” she said. Patting his knee and seemingly satisfied, JJ sat back in her seat and closed her eyes, telling him to, “Rest up, Spence. It’s gonna be a long weekend.”

 

_Monday, September 18th, 2006:_

He tried.

He really did.

Spencer walked into the Red Brick Café on Monday morning with a sense of purpose, knowing that he had a plan and he would be putting an end to this nonsense that'd been plaguing him for weeks. But when he arrived to see Tall Guy flying through _Absalom! Absalom!_ like it was nothing, like it wasn’t one of the most brilliantly difficult pieces of Americana ever written, he completely lost his nerve.

He wasn’t dressed in sweats this time either. No, instead he was wearing a red plaid button up on top of jeans, his longish brown hair curling around his ears where he’d pushed it back, just skirting the top of his collar. His sleeves were rolled up his muscular forearms, and tapered into wide, strong hands… he had _really_ nice hands—

Spencer shook his head fitfully, rushing up to the counter and grabbing his coffee before he got caught checking out this guys arms like a creep.

It was nearly seven, and since they worked straight through the weekend on the case in Texas, Hotch had generously granted them the day off. With nowhere else to go, and nothing pertinent to do, Spencer snagged a seat by the front window, ensuring his back was facing the handsome stranger, lest he found himself inadvertently staring again. He settled in, letting the cozy warmth of the nearby fireplace, the exposed brick walls and natural lighting lull him into a sense of security, allowing him to relax and really get into what he was reading that hour. He was just wrapping up the first half, when he was startled back to reality by someone clearing their throat, right beside him.

Setting the book down on the table, bracing for the worst, Spencer glanced over his shoulder, his stomach dropping when he found the tall stranger standing over him, smiling shyly.

_What the hell was he doing?!_

This wasn’t part of his regular set of behaviours, and Spencer certainly wasn’t expecting him to _ever_ approach him like this. He sat speechless, staring and unable to even ask what this guy wanted, when the strange man gestured to the empty seat at Spencer’s table and asked, “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Spencer replied without thinking, and to his complete surprise.

Maybe he was thrown off by the deep timbre of the man’s voice, or the way he kept nervously chewing on his lower lip, but Spencer was suddenly robbed of all higher brain function. He barely managed to keep his mouth shut and not hanging agape as the stranger climbed into the seat next to his.

“I have to apologize,” the strange man said, leaning on his forearms on the table and curling his fingers together, “I realize you must think I’m a total freak, and I meant to talk to you sooner, really, I did, but you never stay longer than it takes to buy a coffee and you always look like you’re headed somewhere in a hurry. I didn’t want to bother you, but I’m starting to think that what I’ve _been_ doing is bothering you more than just talking to you would, so—” he finally took a breath, and said sincerely, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Spencer stammered, struggling to get his voice above a whisper and reminding himself to blink.

“Well, good. Thanks I guess, I'm glad,” the stranger chuckled and shook his head, his brow furrowing in askance, “But, and again I'm sorry, but I really need to ask... can you actually read that fast?”

The question took Spencer by surprise, and on top of the already unsettling situation, he found his words had fled him, and all he could do was nod dumbly.

That was enough, it seemed. The strange man laughed outright, seemingly pleased with himself as he said, “That’s amazing! You know, I’ve always been a fast reader myself, but I’ve been having _such_ a hard time keeping up with you, and I just had to know if you could actually whip through books like its nothing, or if you were just messing with me.”

“I know that I must have been annoying you these past few weeks,” he continued on, even as Spencer tried desperately to snap himself out of this silly little daze he found himself in, where all he could notice were how broad this man’s shoulders were, the golden flecks in his bright, hazel eyes and his gorgeous smile, “but once I noticed how quickly you were reading, and the huge range of books, it was like I couldn’t un-see it.” He smiled wider still, if that were even possible, his cheeks dimpling, “I’ll admit, I’ve been more than a little fascinated by what must be going on in your head, and I was wondering if I could maybe join you? I’ve never read Sartre before, and I would love the chance to go over some of his expressions of existentialism.”

Spencer coughed into his fist, and looked around the coffee shop, checking to see if any of the other patrons noticed what was going on. This had to be some kind of a hoax, someone else had to be in on it, but there was no one. No one else was looking at them, and when he turned back to the strange man, his breath caught in his throat as he stammered in reply.

This had never happened to him before, not in his adult life. He’d never been at a loss for words, but there he was, sitting in front of a sweet, intelligent Adonis who was asking to debate philosophy with him, without a single thing to say.

Before he could make a total ass out of himself, Spencer was saved by the chiming of his cell phone, and he fumbled through his bag, taking his eyes off this handsome stranger to focus on the task at hand. Flipping it open, he saw it was a text from JJ, apologizing for having to interrupt their day off and saying they have a case that requires the full team, immediately.

“I-I’m sorry,” Spencer said, awkwardly rising from his seat, stuffing his book into his bag and grabbing his coffee, all while avoiding eye contact with the strange man, “it’s work, I have to go. It was…” He looked up, attempting a smile that turned out more of a grimace, “it was nice meeting you.”

Looking back, he’d like to say he exited the shop with a little more decorum than he did, but he couldn’t kid himself.

He basically ran out of the café.

 

_Wednesday, September 20th, 2006:_

In a total break from the norm, Spencer walked into the Red Brick Café at around midnight on a Wednesday, burnt out from their case in North Mammon, and desperate for a caffeine fix. He had a mountain of paperwork cinched under his arm, and more still stuffed in his messenger bag, the mere thought of which was enough to make him long for his bed, but also meant there was no way in hell he could go home. He knew from experience that when he was this tired, when they’d had this many cases in such quick succession, that if he was anywhere in his house, be it his couch or the kitchen table, he’d find a way to fall asleep, and there was no way he could leave this paperwork any longer. It needed to get done that night.

He must look rough, he thought to himself, as Lisa gave him a pitying smile, pouring him an extra-large mug of coffee and telling him it was on the house. He  hadn’t gotten more than a few hours sleep since Sunday night, and he was still wearing yesterdays clothes, his other outfit dirty and crumpled in his go-bag. He desperately needed a shower and a good-nights sleep, but knowing that wasn’t in the cards for him, he graciously accepted the free coffee and turned around, looking for a place to sit. It was then, scanning the mostly empty coffee shop for somewhere comfortable, but not  _too_ comfortable, that he noticed a familiar face.

His book-stalker was there too.

Spencer had only ever seen him there in the mornings, either in street clothes or sweats, and while he wondered on more than one occasion what this man did for a living, he never once managed to come to a logical conclusion. At first, he might have thought it was something menial, or that he was a business man of some kind. He couldn't ever decide though, as he didn't have enough data to go on. But _never_ in his wildest imaginings had Spencer ever considered this:

Tall Guy was a doctor.

His familiar, broad form was hunched over one of the tables, with patients charts and medial journals spread out across from him in every direction. They were stacked on top of one another, piled in different states of disarray, and he was pouring over them intently, looking exceedingly frazzled. Wearing blue hospital scrubs under a brown hoodie, he held his head in his hands, both to push his hair back and presumably keep his head from falling on the table.

He looked about as tired and dead to the world as Spencer felt.

Frowning, Spencer bit his lip and craned his neck just a little, managing to catch the heading of the nearest journal, open to a chapter on metabolic disorders. He thought that maybe he was struggling with a diagnosis, and a sudden jolt of guilt took Spencer by surprise.

JJ was right; he had made a lot of unfair assumptions about this guy.

He didn’t know what possessed him to go over there, but whether he actively decided to or not, it clearly didn’t matter. Spencer’s feet moved of their own accord, and before he knew it, he had sidled up to Tall Guy’s table, setting his coffee down on an empty space and clearing his throat, much like the other man had done on Monday.

Tall Guy looked up, startled back to the present, and immediately opened his mouth to speak, when Spencer, somehow finding his words, interjected. “I’m sorry for running off on Monday,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically loud in the nearly empty coffee shop, “and for the way I was acting. I’m not used to people noticing me, and I’m a little too used to people trying to get under my skin, so when you started copying what I was reading, I just assumed you were being a jerk. It was unfair, and I’m sorry.”

“Please,” Tall Guy said, gesturing for Spencer to take a seat, hurriedly trying to clear up the mess on the table and give him some room, “Like I said, I should be the one apologizing. I thought I might be bothering you, but I couldn’t stop once I started, and I really should have spoken to you sooner.” He attempted a smile, still bright and captivating despite his dull, tired eyes, “I didn’t mean to freak you out, I was just fascinated and I didn’t know what to do about it. I’m not the most adept at meeting new people.”

Spencer nodded silently, taking a seat beside him and sipping his coffee, so exhausted he barely had the wherewithal to be anxious.

The handsome stranger smiled a little wider, and held out his hand, “Shall we start over?” He watched Spencer intently, his hand hovering between them, and it wasn’t until Spencer took his offer and shook his hand that he relaxed completely, introducing himself as, “Doctor Sam Campbell.”

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” he replied.

Sam’s eyes lit up, “Oh, are you one of the new intern's?”

“Not that kind of doctor,” Spencer corrected with a smile, “PhD’s; three of them.”

“Wow,” Sam said, and Spencer nodded knowingly, having received that reaction on numerous occasions. “And what do you do with three PhD’s, Doctor Reid?”

“I’m a profiler with the Behavioural Analysis Unit,” he said, “In the—”

“FBI, yeah,” Sam huffed incredulously, his books forgotten for the moment, “So then, our jobs aren’t too dissimilar after all. We both try to help people.”

“I suppose so,” Spencer said over his cup of coffee, and as his curiosity got the better of him, he pointed down to the mess of books and folders in front of Sam, and asked, “What are you doing here so late?”

Sam’s shrugged, his eyebrows pinching together as he looked down, having forgotten they were there for a moment. “I got decimated in rounds today, and I need to step it up for tomorrow,” he sighed, shuffling his papers around, “Something about metabolic disorders… I just can’t seem to grasp it. I can study for hours, but the instant Doctor MacLeod starts asking about polyuria and nephropathy, my mind just goes blank.”

“Do you need some help?” Spencer asked immediately, sitting up in his chair, suddenly a lot less tired at the prospect of helping someone study, “I know I’m not _that_ kind of doctor, but I have a personal interest in inherited genetic conditions. I find them fascinating.”

Sam raised a brow, “You study metabolic diseases for fun?”

“Mostly multifactorial inheritance disorders, but I’ve spent some time researching chromosome and monogenetic disorders.” Spencer sidled his chair a little closer, “I’d be happy to help, unless I’d be bothering you?”

Chuckling, Sam shook his head in disbelief, shoving one of the books over towards Spencer. “Honestly, I would welcome it,” he said, “I’ve been at this for hours, and a fresh set of eyes might be exactly what I need.” He smiled, watching intently as Spencer dug into the medical journal, flipping pages at breakneck speed, “Where did you even _come_ from?”

“Las Vegas."

“You know what I mean."

“I’m a genius with an eidetic memory and I read exceptionally fast,” Spencer answered, tapping the folders in front of Sam authoritatively, “And while I have no problem helping you, I’m not doing your work for you, so you better start focusing more on your studies, and less on me, or else I’m just going to read this journal for my own benefit.”

“If you want to read the Journal of—” Sam laughed, tilting the book upwards so he could read the cover and smiling when Spencer shoved it back down, “Endocrine and Metabolic Disorders for shits and giggles, I’d be more than happy to let you.” Despite that, he turned back to his folders, sorting through them and trying to make some sense of the disordered mess, “But I appreciate the help, Doctor.”

“You can just call me Spencer,” he said softly, smiling though not looking up from the pages of the journal.

“Thank you, Spencer.”

“You’re welcome, Sam.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Monday, September 4th, 2006:_

Dear God, he was beautiful.

Sam felt like the worlds biggest creep, sitting in his local coffeehouse half an hour before he had to be there, just so he could stare at the stuffily dressed young man who was there every morning at six-am sharp. But try as he might, he couldn’t seem to keep away.

Sam was there on accident the first time he’d seen him: there’s been a power outage in the middle of the night, and when he’d awoken to a flashing one on his alarm clock he just about had a heart attack, thinking he was five hours late for work. By the time he’d realized it was only five am his heart was racing, and he was already up and dressed, so there was no hope of him falling back asleep. Instead of lying there, futilely waiting out the clock, he’d decided to go for an early run, and stopped in at his favorite coffeeshop right after.

It was busier than he expected it to be at that time in the morning, but his chair was free (the one in the corner was his, as he’d decided the first day he wandered into the Red Brick) and he chose to stay in with his coffee for once. He wasn’t expected at rounds until 8am; he had time.

Sam had only been sitting in _his_ chair for a few moments when the young man in question stumbled through the front doors, looking half asleep and even less self-aware. He had his coffee waiting for him at the counter, and wasted no time grabbing it, politely thanking the woman behind the counter before taking his place in line and waiting to pay. He’d pulled a book out of his bag almost immediately, and to Sam’s utter shock, was about a quarter of the way through it by the time he made it to the register. Sam thought _he_ was a fast reader, but this kid put him to shame.

He dressed like an old man, but aside from the speed reading, his looks were what had first captivated Sam. He tried not make a habit of checking out strangers in public, but once he’d noticed him, Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was gorgeous: tall and willowy, with long legs and soft brown hair. He was slim, and while his sweater vests and corduroy pants could put the wardrobe of any of Sam’s stuffy med school professors to shame, they fit him well enough, hugging his hips and tiny waist in all the right places. He had a sweet smile, full lips and big doe eyes, and unfortunately for him, the instant Sam saw him, he was hooked. He hadn’t felt such an instant attraction to someone since he first met Jessica Moore in their Freshman year of college.

And try as he might, Sam couldn’t seem to tear himself away.

Every morning since, he’d woken up just a little earlier than necessary, going for a run before stopping in for a coffee, just before six. It was awful, creepy and rude, as Charlie from IT liked to remind him on a daily basis, but he had to see him. Not just because Sam was attracted to him, though that played a big enough part on its own, but because Sam had noticed another neat little fact about him.

He had the most insane taste in books _ever_.

The kid had to be a genius of some kind, with how quickly he read and the variation in genres. When Sam first picked up on it, he thought it was odd that this guy would go from reading _Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee_ to _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_ , but he wasn’t one to judge. Since he was ten, he’d kept a stack of books next to his bed that he read over and over when he didn’t have anything else on the go, and he knew for a fact that some of those didn’t belong next to one another.

Then, the next day, the kid came in reading _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_. And then he was reading Stephen Hawking’s _A Brief History of Time_. Followed by _Jane Eyre_ , and _Watership Down_ , before landing on _The Illustrated Man._

It was absolutely fascinating.

So much so, that when Sam woke up on this particular morning, he decided that if he didn’t have the guts to talk to his beautiful stranger, he might as well go full-on weirdo, and get to know him through books.

(Charlie was definitely going to have some choice words for him about this)

Sipping his coffee and attempting to be as nonchalant as possible, Sam had waited for Pretty Boy to walk into the Red Brick. His nerves running rampant, Sam had wiped his sweaty palms on his track pants so many times they had to be noticeably damp, and by the time the young man walked into the restaurant, Sam lost whatever nerve he had. So, he moved on to plan B.

Watching as stealthily as he could muster, Sam waited for him to pull his book out of his messenger bag, only having to avert his gaze once when the kid looked up in his direction.

He was reading _Blood Meridian_ ; a copy of which Sam knew was sitting on his bedside table.

Perfect, he thought with a self-satisfied grin, he wouldn’t have to stop by a bookstore after work.

 

_Friday, September 8th, 2006:_

“Oh, he seemed a little pissed off this morning, did he? I wonder why…”

Sam hopped up onto the kitchen counter, balancing his bowl of cereal in one hand and trying to block out his roommate Kevin Tran’s sarcastic rant, even as he gained in volume. It was a valiant effort, but short sighted, as all Kevin had to do was pull the bowl from his hands to get his attention back.

“What?” Sam asked, feigning ignorance and holding his spoon aloft.

“You’re _stalking_ him, Sam!”

“I’m not stalking him,” Sam said, rolling his eyes as he snatched back his cereal, “I’m just reading the same books as him, that’s all.”

“Without him knowing,” Kevin said, crossing his arms over his chest, “I thought hanging out at the same coffee shop he goes to every morning, just so you can stare at him for a few minutes, was you reaching peak creepiness. Why do you have to consistently prove me wrong?”

“Someone has to take you down a peg, boy wonder,” Sam mumbled around a bite of shredded wheat, “besides, it’s not stalking. It’s taking a keen interest, right Cas?”

Both Sam and Kevin looked through the pass-through window from the kitchen to the living-room, waiting for Cas to chime in with his two-cents. Dressed in scrub pants and a pajama top, the nurse had apparently been distracted from his morning routine halfway through by that day’s paper, and was currently flopped down on the couch, reading intently. It seemed Cas hadn’t heard him, which wouldn’t be much of a surprise; he was notorious for getting lost in his head, with most of the doctors in the ICU learning to tap him on the shoulder or otherwise physically get his attention, before asking a question. But then again, his thinking face looked a lot like his daydreaming face, and before Sam could repeat himself, Cas called over his shoulder, “Otherwise known as stalking.”

“Thanks,” Sam sighed, chomping down a few more bites of his cereal, “its good to know you’ve always got my back.”

With an annoyed huff, Cas tossed his paper onto the coffee table and sat up, climbing onto his knees and leaning over the back of the couch. He caught Sam in his sights, his sleepy, blue eyed glare pinning the younger man to his spot on the counter, and Sam gulped nervously. “Look,” he said, somehow managing to look intimidating, even while sleep mussed and wearing a bumble bee pajama top, “you’re being a creep and clearly you know it, because you insist on denying it. You’re also aware that the longer you do this without making some effort to speak with the guy, the more likely it is he’ll write you off completely. And you’re doing that on purpose, because you’re an overgrown man-child who is so afraid of being told no, that you’d rather sabotage yourself from the start, because then you can look back and say you never had a chance to begin with.”

Kevin hissed in mock pain, patting Sam on the shoulder as Cas shrugged, flopping back onto the couch, picking up his paper and getting right back into it. “You need to stop working with Meg,” Kevin said to Cas as he walked across the apartment towards his room, collecting his scrubs and stethoscope along the way, “she’s starting to rub off on you.”

“Yeah, he wishes,” said Sam, before ducking to avoid the balled-up newspaper Cas tossed at his head.

“Don’t ask for my opinion if you’re just going to moan about it after.”

Dumping his bowl in the sink, Sam turned, looking out across their small, shared apartment with a sigh. “I know you’re right,” he said, the somber tone of his voice giving Cas pause. He put his paper down again and sat up, frowning as Sam explained, “but he seems like a really sweet guy. He’s smart, he clearly has his life together… he doesn’t need a fuck up like me asking after him.”

Kevin groaned from across the apartment, and Cas’s gaze turned pitying. He rose from the couch, walking into the kitchen and stopped right in front of Sam, looking sadly into his eyes… before backhanding him across the side of the head.

“Ow!” Sam exclaimed, pressing a palm to his wounded head, “What the hell was that for?”

“Enough with the self-deprecating crap, Sam,” Cas crossed his arms over his chest, “It’s not very becoming, and all you’re doing is beating yourself up for no reason.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter, his expression softening and said, “I know you’ve been through a lot, believe me, I know it better than anyone.”

“Except me!” Kevin called from the bathroom.

“Except him,” Cas relented, “but you’ve come a long way from what you were. You’re a good, companionate doctor, and this guy would be lucky to know you. What are you so afraid of?”

He didn’t need to ask. Sam looked away sadly, and Cas sighed, reaching out and grabbing both of Sam’s hands. “Just promise me,” he said, ducking his head to catch Sam’s eye, “that when you see him on Monday, you’ll actually try to talk to him.” Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Cas cut him off, imploring, “Please? You don’t even have to succeed. You just need to try.”

Even though Cas had on his sweet, wide-eyed, endearing expression, Sam knew how fast that could change, and instead of arguing, he just nodded in response. He’d learned on his first day at Bethesda General that crossing Cas was a losing battle, and that once he had it in his head that he was right and you were wrong, it would take nothing short of an army to change his mind. He was a good person, though, and in the year they’d known each other, he’d become one of Sam’s closest friends.

Sam’s other closest friend suddenly appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, coat on and ready to go. “Why are you two still standing around?” Kevin asked, waving wildly at the microwave clock, which tipped over to eight am as they stared at it.

“Shit,” Cas said calmly, looking down at his pajama top and bear paw slippers. He pursed his lips, seeming to mull over whether it was worth it to rush around, seeing as he was already going to be late, before deciding, “You two go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

He didn’t have to tell Kevin, the penultimate overachiever, twice. He was out the door and down the hall before Cas had finished his sentence.

Sam at least had the courtesy to pat Cas on the shoulder before scooping up his stuff and heading towards the door. “Don’t take too long,” he said, looping his backpack over his shoulders, “I can cover for you, but only until Dr. MacLeod decides he needs you for something menial.”

Cas brushed passed Sam, unbuttoning his pajama top as he walked towards his bedroom, letting it slip down his arms and hit the floor without pausing for even a moment. “Tell Crowley he can bite me,” he called over his shoulder, nonplussed.

Laughing, Sam shook his head and wondered, not for the first time, how Cas managed to piss off the chief of medicine every single day and still keep his job.

He supposed it was the same way he managed to convince Sam he needed to try talking to his not-so-secret coffee shop crush.

It was just Cas.

 

_Monday, September 11th, 2006:_

He tried…

And he failed.

But to his credit, he did a good deal less staring than normal. He was absolutely engrossed in his book, so much so he almost forgot to look at what Pretty Boy was reading that day. He made a mental note to scope out Amazon when he got home; he wanted to pick up a copy of Jean Baudrillard’s work in its original French, just to compare.

 

_Tuesday, September 12th, 2006:_

Pretty Boy pulled out _Engineering and the Mind's Eye_ the next day.

From Post-modern philosophy to technical books, the young man who looked like he robbed a geriatrics wardrobe was taking him on one hell of a literary escapade.

Sam watched him pensively, his fingers tapping against his knee as the other man leaned against the pastry case, flying through the pages of his book. He watched as he crossed one ankle over the other, as he pressed his tongue against his lower lip and paused, only momentarily, on a particularly meaty passage, and Sam had to look away, wiping the sweat from his palms on his jeans.

He was being ridiculous. He knew that Cas was right, and that he needed to try to talk to the guy. And there was no reason for him to be so stressed about it; Sam was a doctor, for gods sake—he dealt with more difficult situations every single day. He had to make decisions that could mean the difference between life and death (with an attending looking over his shoulder, of course, but that was beside the point). He’d had to tell patients they had cancer, that they were terminal, that there was nothing they could do. He’d had to console grieving relatives after telling them their family member had died! You want to talk stress? He lived it!

So why was it so hard for him to walk up to the counter and ask this young man for his name? To ask if he wanted to sit down with him and talk about the book they were both reading? To ask if he bought his coffee, would this man let him sit with him and pick his brain, just for a few moments?

It shouldn’t be so difficult.

But it was.

Sam couldn’t seem to rise to his feet, much less walk across the room. And every morning, by the time he steeled himself enough to try, the young man was already gone.

Whatever, Sam thought to himself, flipping listlessly through his book.

It was probably better this way.

 

_Thursday, September 14th, 2006:_

This guy had to be messing with him.

He’d had him reading the most nonsensical series of books in such rapid succession that Sam could barely keep up, and with the addition of that last French novel, Sam was certain the kid knew he was copying him.

And that sounded so juvenile it made his stomach twist up into knots.

He’d gone home that morning and flopped face first onto the couch, ignoring the bustle of his roommates getting ready for work around him, and forcing poor Jack to relocate to the kitchen table to finish his homework. He had the day off, and while he had been looking forward to spending it doing absolutely nothing, he now found himself wishing he had somewhere to go. At least if he were working, he’d have something to focus on other that what a gigantic coward he was.

He was sulking and half-smothering himself in the couch cushions when Kevin came out of the bathroom, already dressed in his scrubs and towelling his hair. “What happened to you?” he asked cautiously, sidestepping Sam’s gigantic legs where they hung off the edge of the couch, and rounding the coffee table to sit in the armchair beside him.

“I think he knows,” Sam muttered into the cushions, tilting his head to the side to get some air, “He has me reading this.”

Sam dug into his backpack, which he’d dropped to the floor before his couch flop and pulled out the book he’d picked up on the way home from the coffee shop. Kevin took it from him, examining both covers before declaring, “I don’t speak French.”

“This guy does.”

“And so do you,” said Kevin, tossing the book on the table, “but I guess he wouldn’t know that, seeing as you’re still too big a chicken to talk to him.”

Sitting up like a shot, Sam glared at Kevin from underneath his hair. “I’ve tried,” he groused, “you know I’ve tried.”

“So _keep_ trying,” Kevin said exasperatedly, leaning over his knees, “What’s the matter, Sam? Seriously, you’re more than capable of being personable around patients, so why are you so scared to talk to this guy? You’re already obsessed with him and you haven’t spoken once! Why do you keep freezing up?”

With a frustrated groan, Sam pushed himself to his feet. He was amazed he even needed to explain this— Kevin had been his friend and roommate since their first day of college, and he knew more about Sam than anyone else ever had (outside of Dean, of course). He knew all his dirty laundry, was privy to it first-hand, so it should have come as no surprise when Sam walked over to the TV cabinet and pulled out a silver knife, tossing it onto the couch without a word.

And while it wasn’t a surprise, Kevin wasn’t accepting it as an excuse, either. He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest and raised his brow, as if challenging Sam to do better.

Fine, Sam thought to himself. If Kevin needed more proof, than he could provide.

He walked over to the framed print they had hanging on one of their walls (a gift from a tattooer friend of Cas’s for helping to correct his chronic carpal tunnel) and plucked it from its hook. Kevin huffed and sank further into his chair as Sam gestured to the space the picture once hung, to the sigil painted on the wall in cherry red spray paint.

Immediately afterwards, Sam stalked over to the window across the room, running his finger through the line of salt along its pane, and then kicked the rug by his feet, flipping up the corner to reveal a large, circular sigil painted on the hardwood floor.

He stood silent, staring at Kevin and daring him to explain all that away.

What he got was a long-suffering eye-roll as Kevin mumbled, “We’re never going to get our security deposit back.”

“Kevin,” Sam said exasperatedly, “seriously?”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Kevin leaned forward again, picking up the knife and holding it out in demonstration, “I’ve put up with this shit for the past eight years. Your weirdo compulsions don’t bother me anymore.”

“But I’m sure they’d bother _him_.” Sam fell back into the couch, its feet scraping against the floor and groaning under his weight. He sat there dejectedly, and even Kevin knew better than to interrupt the internal monologue he was concocting, choosing to sit silently until Sam felt ready to say, “I’m crazy, man. And the second he knew me—like really got to know me—he’d run the other way.” He looked up at Kevin somberly, eyebrows furrowed, “I’m a freak.”

“Oh, for the love of—okay,” Kevin shuffled the armchair forwards, stopping just before their knees brushed and looking Sam in the eye, “Do you remember the first day we met?”

“Of course I do,” Sam said, “It was my first day at college, and I’d just moved into my dorm to learn my roommate was a fifteen-year-old whiz kid from a place called _Neighbour,_ Michigan.”

“Exactly,” Kevin replied, “You were seventeen and ready to branch out on your own for the first time ever, and you were suddenly saddled with me, a kid who was still terrified to move away from his mom. I was expecting my college experience to consist of burying myself in studying while being bullied and harassed by people who thought they were better than me. And when I walked in to that dorm room and saw all six-foot-six of you, I was ready to pack up and head home.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees and asked, “Do you know what stopped me?”

Sam shook his head.

“You did,” said Kevin, and Sam’s expression softened, “You looked at me and just introduced yourself, like you didn’t think I was just some brainiac kid. You even helped me unpack. You were nice to me, and not because you were trying to mess with me or get me to write your physics assignment. By the time you had your first nightmare, and I started noticing your odder… proclivities, I didn’t care because I knew you. You were my friend, and I knew you were a good person.”

“So, what you’re saying is that once this guy knows me well enough to figure out I’m _crazy_ , he’ll be in too deep to get out?”

“No, you idiot!” Sam jerked backwards in surprise when Kevin swatted at his knee, “I’m saying once he gets to know you, he’ll like you for who you are, and the rest of it won’t matter.”

The couch dipped slightly on the right-hand side, and Sam looked up to see Cas sitting there, cup of tea in hand and his hair an absolute mess… but, this time at least, he was fully dressed. “And stop saying you’re crazy,” Cas said, tapping Sam’s knee reproachfully with the toe of his slippered foot, “You have complex PTSD, and you’re working on it. If this guy is half as smart as you seem to think he is, then he’ll understand.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Sam asked, unconvinced.

“Then fuck him!” Kevin said, throwing his hands up exasperatedly.

Cas nodded in agreement, adding, “Besides, he’s never going to get the chance if you don’t talk to him.”

Sam looked back and forth between his two friends, between Kevin’s pleading gaze and Cas’ usual lazy disinterest, and he knew they were right.

They were always right.

Sam nodded a few times, gnawing at his lower lip and Cas smiled, reaching over to pat him on the shoulder. Crisis averted for now, Kevin blew out a sigh of relief as he pushed up to his feet, groaning when his stiff back cracked. Sam and Cas winced, both knowing the agony of working the day after a late-night shift, and they watched, waving when Kevin slipped out the front door, heading to the hospital ahead of Cas.

For his part, Cas seemed to take Kevin’s departure as the kick in the ass he needed to get moving. Picking up his (now tepid) tea, he sipped at it before climbing to his feet. “Jack get your stuff together,” he called to the young man sitting at the kitchen table, his nose stuffed in his history textbook, “I’m dropping you off today.”

Without a word to the contrary, his little brother did as he was told, stuffing his books into his backpack before grabbing his school blazer off the hook. Cas somehow managed to continue drinking from his mug while balancing precariously on one foot, swapping out his bear paw slippers for his sneakers, multitasking in that spectacularly lackadaisical way only he could pull off. Jack came to stand at his side, dressed ridiculously proper for a high school sophomore, taking the mug from him so he could slip on the other shoe and asking, “Don’t you need to be at work in like, fifteen minutes?”

“Yeah, and you need to be at school in twenty-five,” Cas muttered, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, “School trumps work.”

“Since when?”

“Since it costs 32 grand to send you there.”

Jack frowned, “But without a job, you couldn’t afford to send me there at all.”

“That’s a real chicken or the egg dilemma you’ve got there,” Cas said, rolling his eyes and taking back his mug, “Why don’t you go mull it over in the car?”

Jack began to protest, but when Cas shoved the car keys into his hands, he changed his tune. Cas would rather punch himself in the face than let Jack drive, and they both knew he was only giving him the keys so he could unlock the car, but Jack’s eyes lit up nonetheless. With a wry grin, he turned on his heel and walked out the door, waiting until he was out of eyeshot before breaking into a run and hoofing it down the stairs.

Sam watched over the back of the couch as Cas leaned back against the wall, heaving a sigh and finishing off the rest of his tea as he stared into space. He looked exhausted, Sam noted with a frown. Puffy dark circles hung under his eyes, his cheeks drawn and gaunt. He seemed thinner, tired, like he’d been burning the candle at both ends, and thinking back, it made sense. Sam couldn’t remember the last time Cas had a day off.

“I can take him to school, if you want,” Sam said, startling Cas out of his reverie, “I’ve got the day off, and nothing to do but brush up on my French, so it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“You don’t have to do that—” Cas started, but Sam had already decided, pushing onto his feet and walking to the hall closet to retrieve his shoes.

“But I will,” he said, picking his car keys out of the bowl they lived in and dropping them in Cas’ hand, “Take my car and go; maybe if you’re on time for once, Crowley will cut you some slack and stop scheduling you in on weekends.”

“Crowley can bite me,” Cas muttered, but dutifully dropped his mug off in the kitchen and headed towards the door. He paused halfway through, hovering in the doorframe, and looked over his shoulder at Sam, smiling softly, “Thanks.”

Sam smiled back, “It’s no big deal.”

“No, it is,” Cas said, dropping his gaze to his hands as he picked at a splinter of wood on the doorframe, his expression suddenly somber, “Really, Sam. If you and Kevin hadn’t let us move in here, I don’t know what we would have done. You really saved our butts.”

“You would be fine,” Sam assured him, clapping a hand down on his shoulder, “but we were happy to. Having you and Jack here has been great, honestly.” Clearing his throat, Sam ducked his head, trying to catch Cas’s eye, “You can ask for help if you need it, you know.”

Cas shook his head, “I can handle it. Besides, he’s not your kid—”

“Why should that matter?” said Sam, “He’s your brother, and Kevin and I would love to help. So maybe cut yourself some slack and take us up on the offer sometime?” When Cas stayed silent, refusing to look at him, Sam sighed, “Cas, come on—”

A car horn blared outside, and Cas cursed, checking his watch before ducking out from underneath Sam’s palm. “So much for not being late,” he said, jogging down the hall and shouting, “Thanks again!” over his shoulder.

Sam deliberated shouting that he wasn’t dropping the subject that easily after Cas’ retreating form, but he was gone faster than he could think of something clever. He turned to lock the door, and winced when the car horn blared again, honking in quick succession before just droning, reverberating through the hallway. “Alright, alright Jack,” he muttered, speed walking towards the stairs and checking his watch again.

If he ignored every stop sign, he could still manage to get Jack _to_ the school with a few seconds to spare.

He decided to take the stairs down three at a time.

 

_Monday, September 18th, 2006:_

Today was the day, Sam decided.

This was it… he was going to talk to that guy _this morning_ , no matter what.

He woke up an hour earlier than necessary, forgoing his usual run in favour of lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. He laid there as long as he dared, talking himself up in his head and trying to build some semblance of confidence, but in the end, time was what motivated him out of bed. He wanted to look decent, and he needed to get there well ahead of the handsome stranger if he ever hoped to work up the nerve to speak with him.

It took far too long for him to leave the apartment, but he still got to the coffee shop ahead of schedule. He’d almost decided not to come while he was brushing his teeth, warring with himself through the mirror as he leaned over the sink, and it had taken all the mental fortitude he could muster not to keep walking past the Red Brick once he got there. And now, seated in his usual spot, his hair tucked back behind his ears and his heart hammering in his chest, he was trying his hardest to calm the hell down, forcing himself to read his book.

Around seven, the stranger arrived, wearing a hideous purple and green cardigan, his converse scuffing along the wooden floor as he walked up to the counter to grab his coffee. This was his chance, Sam thought to himself, snapping his book shut and picking up his coffee mug. He had two minutes, tops, before the other man paid and left the building, so if he was going to speak with him, Sam had to go now. But no matter how badly he wanted to, no matter how he pleaded with himself to stand up, to walk over and to talk to him, Sam couldn’t get his legs on board. He pushed down into his feet, and his leg muscles tensed, but he couldn’t move from his seat.

He felt as though he were seated in quicksand, and that every imagined move he made only served to pull him deeper into his chair. He looked across the restaurant longingly, biting the inside of his cheek. He was being ridiculous; he was a grown man, it shouldn’t be this hard to talk to a stranger, but he just _couldn’t_. Every time he thought of something to say, or how he would make his way across the café, cutting a path through the tables to the strange man’s side, that needling, obstinate voice in the back of his mind stopped him in his tracks.

The one that reminded him of how badly he’d failed Jessica.

Of what a coward he’d been with Madison.

Of all the awful things Ruby had said, and the truth hidden in every single one of them.

What was he looking for? A relationship? A friend? A hook-up? What could he offer this man that he hadn’t been able to offer them? Ruby was the only one who’d had the guts to say it to his face: everyone he cared for either got hurt, or died. And those that didn’t left him in the end.

So what was the purpose of even starting anything? What was the point of reaching out and talking to this person, someone he’d been obsessing over for weeks, when he knew where they would end up (if they got there at all)?

This beautiful, bizarre, fascinating stranger was better off not knowing him at all.

He was a Winchester after all, and though he could hide it behind a sealed record, redacted government reports and his mothers maiden name, it was a part of him, through and through.

And the Winchester’s were cursed.

Slumping back into his seat, Sam set his coffee mug back onto the table, following it with his book, a little more forcefully than necessary. He looked over his shoulder at the clock, the one that told him he still had two hours to go before work, and begrudgingly accepted that he been wasting two hours a day, every day, just sitting in this stupid coffee shop for no good reason. That mere fact was so depressing to him that it didn’t matter he hadn’t finished his coffee yet. He needed to leave.

Picking up his book and his mug, intent on dropping it off at the counter and heading home (maybe he could flop face first on the couch and wallow before heading to his shift in the ICU). When he finally stood up he was forced to squint, the sun reflecting off the plate glass windows directly into his eyes. He ducked a little, stepping out of the way of the blinding beam and glaring towards the window, as if it’d done that on purpose, adding insult to injury, when he saw something that made his breath catch in his throat.

Pretty Boy hadn’t left.

He was sitting by the window, his back to Sam as he hunched over his novel, his tawny brown hair tucked neatly behind his ears and his toe tapping incessantly on the rung of his stool. His cheek was resting in the palm of one hand, held aloft on top of the table by his elbow, while the other flipped through the pages of the book almost without pause. He looked as though he were just skimming through, but Sam knew better, and before he could stop himself, before he had any cognizant idea of what he was doing, he was veering off course and walking towards the strange man.

Weeks. It had been weeks, and not _once_ had Pretty Boy stayed in the café to drink his coffee. So what were the chances he stayed _today_ , on the day Sam had decided to give up on him altogether? His therapist might (and probably would, if he ever managed to go back to her) call this “confirmation bias,” and would then tell him it was unhealthy, and not at all constructive to his recovery and overall mental health, but he couldn’t help it. As much as Sam believed he was cursed, he also believed in fate.

And this was too much of a coincidence to be anything but.

He was over at the stranger’s side in seconds, ticking down the distance in a long-legged gait. The young man was as thin as he appeared, his slender shoulders and willowy arms drowned in the too-big sweater he wore, but everything about him had an awkward elegance to it. The curve of his palm against his cheek, and the way his long fingers slipped underneath the pages was entrancing, and Sam had to actively remind himself to do something, to let him know he was there. Sam cleared his throat loudly, and it was as if a weight were suddenly lifted from his shoulders… at least now there was no going back.

The stranger stiffened, his fingers stilling where they hovered above the page and he paused, not moving or saying anything. Sam had a brief moment of panic, in which he thought the he might just ignore him completely, when the young man closed his novel and glanced over his shoulder, his brows furrowed and eyes wide.

He was even more stunning up close.

The stranger stared at him, softly parted lips snapping shut as he shuffled back in his seat, turning so he could look at him without straining his neck, and Sam, with some effort, pulled a hand out of his pocket and gestured to the empty seat next to him. “Do you mind?” he asked, clearing his throat immediately after when his voice cracked. His palms began to sweat, and he shoved his hand back in his pocket, slouching forwards so he wasn’t looming over the poor guy like a Frankenstein reject.  

Sam didn’t know what to expect (the whole day had been an eyes-closed, hands-up, Jesus-take-the-wheel rollercoaster ride from start to finish, and it wasn’t even eight am yet), but when the young man worried his lower lip between his teeth, looking pensively down at the table, he thought he’d completely struck out. Imagine his surprise then, when only moments later the stranger looked back up, smiling softly as he said, “Not at all.”

Sam smiled back, relief flooding him like a tidal wave, and climbed into the seat next to him. He leaned across the table on his forearms, twining his fingers together just to keep them out of the way, and glanced back up at the other man, who was watching him carefully. His golden-brown eyes tracked every move Sam made, and as he eased back into his seat, each move he made was so graceful, so fluid, that any thought Sam had flew from his mind in an instant.

Which was a major issue, considering he was waiting for Sam to explain why he’d come over here in the first place.

His anxiety came back with a vengeance, and with it, took the last vestiges of Sam’s decorum. In a desperate bid to say the right thing, to make a good impression, the dam broke, and what came tumbling out of Sam’s mouth was a raucous mix of every single thought he had, the moment they occurred to him.

“I have to apologize,” he started off simply enough, leading right into, “I realise you must think I’m a total freak.” The young man’s eyebrows knitted together at that, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips, and Sam rambled on hastily, “I meant to talk to you sooner, really, I did, but you never stay longer than it takes to buy a coffee and you always look like you’re headed somewhere in a hurry. I just didn’t want to bother you—” The stranger shot him an incredulous look at that, and Sam huffed an awkward laugh, barely breathing in between, “but I’m starting to think that what I’ve been doing is bothering you more than just talking to you would, so—”

Sam paused, finally forced to draw a breath, and while he hoped he hadn’t just completely embarrassed himself, he managed to eke out a final, sincere, “I’m sorry.”

The young man inhaled sharply, grabbing his coffee cup with both hands and sliding it in front of himself like the worlds most ineffectual shield. “It’s fine,” he said softly, looking up with those soft brown doe’s eyes, and if Sam weren’t a doctor, he’d honestly be worried about how hard his heart was beating at that moment.

“I- I really need to ask,” he said, leaning forward an inch, chuckling nervously. He inwardly winced at that, and shook his head, his brow furrowing as he attempted to _stop acting weird,_ and asked, “Can you really read that fast?”

God, that was a stupid question, and it seemed as though Pretty Boy thought so too, if that open-mouthed stare he received was any indication. To his credit though, he nodded his ascent, and Sam couldn’t help but laugh at that. If nothing else, even if the young man left the café thinking Sam was a complete nutbar, Sam could take comfort in the knowledge that he wasn’t fucking with him. He could actually read a single book in the span of a few minutes.

“That’s amazing!” Sam exclaimed, running a hand through his hair as he sat back in his seat, deciding to take this topic of conversation and run with it till he crashed, “You know, I’ve always been a fast reader but I’ve been having such a hard time keeping up with you, and I just had to know if you could actually whip through books like its nothing, or if you were just messing with me.”

 _Alright Sam_ , he thought to himself, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tried to stay focussed, _he already thinks your nuts, and he already knows you’ve been stalking him via books, so just… lean into it._

“I know that I must have been annoying you these past few weeks,” he said, and the strangers gaze snapped up to his, the hesitancy in his expression slipping away as Sam confessed, “but once I noticed how quickly you were reading, and the broad range of books, it was like I couldn’t un-see it.” He smiled then, happy to see it mirrored in the face of the man across from him, whose full lips parted into one of the sweetest, most bashful smiles Sam had ever seen, “I’ll admit, I’ve been more than a little fascinated by what must be going on in your head, and I was wondering if I could join you? I’ve never read Sartre before, and I would love the chance to discuss some of his expressions of existentialism.”

It was the bravest thing Sam had done that day… an offer. An offer to spend time with him, to get to know him, and he stopped breathing while he waited for his answer. It came in the form of a cough, smothered into the young man’s fist as he looked around the coffee shop, glancing over his shoulders at the other patrons. _That’s not good_ , Sam mused, taking in the strangers stiff and awkward posture, thinking for sure that he was looking for a way out, or that he was going to start shouting for help at any second.

But to his surprise, when the young man looked back at him, he seemed almost… stunned. Like _he_ was the one who couldn’t believe Sam wanted to talk to _him._ It was utterly preposterous, and Sam knew it was all in his head, but for that one brief moment, he felt emboldened with a confidence he hadn’t felt since his first code. He sat up straight, not slouched to cover his height and he caught the way the stranger’s eyes widened, just a fraction, as he did. He waited, watching intently as the young man collected himself, opening his mouth to speak and—

Only to be cut off by the ringing of his cell phone.

And just like that, any attention that Sam commanded was gone. The young man swiveled in his seat, digging his phone out of his bag and flipping it open, pursing his lips as he read over a text. Once the phone was flipped shut again, he wasted no time jumping up from his chair, shoving his book and his phone back in his bag and saying, “I’m sorry.” He had one arm shoved in the wrong sleeve of his jacket as he looped his bag over his head, actively avoiding eye contact with Sam, “It’s work, I have to go. It was…” He looked up, attempting a smile that turned out more of a grimace, and Sam deflated, slumping back into his seat once more, as the young man stammered, “it was nice meeting you.”

Sam didn’t even get a chance to return the sentiment. The kid had grabbed his coffee and ran out the door before he could say a word, his coat still only half on, his arm still through the wrong sleeve.

But, no matter how unsuccessfully that had gone, or how badly it ended, when Kevin asked him that night how talking to coffee shop guy went, Sam was still able to smile at him, and honestly say it was nice.

 

_Wednesday, September 20th, 2006:_

Sam had never been more embarrassed on rounds than he was today, and while he’d always sort of understood Cas’s hatred for their chief of medicine, he’d not felt it until now.

Crowley couldn’t stand him, but that wasn’t new. If teaching pathetic, whiny interns didn’t make the hospital money, he wouldn’t be doing it. He wasn’t working at Bethesda General out of the goodness of his heart, and he certainly didn’t care about the health and wellbeing of his interns, outside of what they could do for him. He only cared about training doctors who were competent enough to not bring him any trouble, while he made money off their long hours and desperation.

Sam could usually stay under the radar, and he excelled at rounds. It was like being on Jeopardy, only if all of the questions were related to medicine and the success of your career rode on how well you did. He studied nightly, he kept on top of new studies and he invested a lot of time and care into every one of his patients, so whenever Crowley took his gaggle of interns for a walk around the ICU to conduct rounds, Sam never got a single question wrong.

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to do.

Cas had broken it down for him: if you wanted to get along with Doctor MacLeod, you had to be competent, but not great. Crowley (which was a nickname given to him by the nursing staff a long time ago) couldn’t abide incompetent doctors, and if you weren’t on top of your studies, or you messed up too many times in his presence, he had no problem sending you packing. On the other hand, he couldn’t stand it when someone, particularly interns or nurses, never messed up. He saw it as showing off and felt threatened by it. He didn’t like not having leverage over the people in his employ.

So, when he started to realize that Sam was getting every single question right at rounds, no matter what he threw at him, Crowley started getting angry. And when Crowley got angry, he scheduled Sam in on call multiple nights a week. He booked him in every weekend. And he made it his god given duty to find some facet of internal medicine that Sam didn’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out Sam had trouble with metabolic disorders.

It started with a few questions here and there, and while he’d ream Sam out for giving him the wrong answers, Sam took it on the nose. He figured if he let Crowley win a little, he’d back off, and maybe Sam could get back to a closer-to-normal sleeping schedule than the one he had now. It didn’t work out that way and rounds quickly became Sam’s most dreaded activity of the day… the hour in which he had to follow Crowley around, listen to him berate him in front of his peers, and have to resist the urge to throttle that tiny little man until he couldn’t even pronounce the word “diabetes.”

He’d been biting his tongue, letting his frustration build and build, until finally, today, he’d snapped.

If asked what the question was he’d got wrong, Sam wouldn’t have been able to recall. What he did remember however was, when Crowley asked him where in his gigantic body he’d managed to misplace his pea brain, he’d insinuated that the chief of medicine worry about his own pea-sized appendage.

That did not go over well.

Sam hadn’t been fired, so that was nice. He wasn’t even being reprimanded, according to Cas, who’d immediately gone to put out that fire and keep Crowley from doing anything drastic. But he knew he was in for it… somewhere along the line, Crowley was going to get him back, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

So, in light of this development, Sam came to a conclusion: the only way he was going to best Crowley at this game was if he did away with his one perceived weakness. He had to become an expert on metabolic disorders, or else Crowley would always have a way to get under his skin and make his life a living hell.

That’s why he was sitting in the Red Brick at ten to midnight on a Wednesday, having been kicked out of the apartment for reading too loud. He needed to buckle down and study, and he only had one day off this week. He had to make the most of it before going back into work on Friday.

All he was thinking about was besting Crowley, and his coffee shop crush couldn’t have been further from his mind. It took him by surprise then when someone placed their cup of coffee down on his table, before clearing their throat loudly, trying to get his attention.

When Sam looked up from his stack of files and medical journals, he found himself face to face with Pretty Boy, who looked just as exhausted as Sam felt.

He looked like he’d been wearing the same set of clothes for a couple of days, and like he’d slept in them. His tawny brown hair was a mess, wavy and tangled in a rat’s nest atop his head, and the circles underneath his eyes could give Sam’s a run for his money, but when he looked at him, he smiled brightly, and Sam’s heart skipped a beat. The stranger set his own armload of folders down on the table, and when he let his bag drop to the ground it gave a loud thud, the books and folders crammed inside crumpling on impact.

Sam opened his mouth to speak, to ask him what he was doing there do late, when Pretty Boy beat him to it. “I’m sorry for running off on Monday,” he said, his voice sweet and subdued, though seemingly so loud in the empty coffee shop, “and for the way I was acting. I’m not used to people noticing me, and I’m a little too used to people trying to get under my skin, so when you started copying what I was reading, I assumed you were just being a jerk. It was unfair, and I’m sorry.”

“Please,” Sam said, not believing what he was hearing and not willing to get his hopes up… not yet anyways. He gestured for the stranger to take a seat, hurriedly trying to clear up the mess on the table and give him some room, “Like I said, I should be the one apologizing. I thought I might be bothering you, but I couldn’t stop once I started, and I really should have spoken to you sooner.” He attempted a smile, and the stranger smiled back, taking a seat beside him and sipping his coffee, “I didn’t mean to freak you out, I was just fascinated and I didn’t know what to do about it. I’m not the most adept at meeting new people.”

Deciding to go for broke, and far too tired to second guess himself, Sam held out his hand to the handsome stranger and asked, “Shall we start over?”

He held his breath, his hand hovering between them as he watched the young man deliberate, pursing his lips and staring at his hand for a long moment before taking him up on his offer, and shaking his hand. Sam breathed out a sigh of relief, and introduced himself as, “Doctor Sam Campbell.”

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” the other man replied.

 _A doctor?_  “Oh, are you an intern as well?”

“Not that kind of doctor,” Spencer corrected with a smile, “PhD’s; three of them.”

That should have been more of a surprise than it was, but not only did Sam assume that Spencer was a genius of some kind, he also lived with his own wunderkind, Kevin Tran, who had two Bachelors, two masters and a PhD. A surplus of smarts wasn’t the most shocking thing in the world to him, but still, he was impressed. “Wow,” Sam said, “And what do you do with three PhD’s, Doctor Reid?”

“I’m a profiler with the Behavioural Analysis Unit,” he said, “In the—”

“FBI, yeah,” Sam huffed incredulously, his books forgotten for the moment. He’d had a lot of contact with the FBI as well, due to his dad, and while he wasn’t too fond of them, he knew it was by virtue of his own fucked-up childhood, and nothing they did to him personally. Spencer seemed so young, and to be working for the BAU… again, Sam was impressed, and as his blood roared in his ears, he managed to say, “So, our jobs aren’t that dissimilar after all. We both try to help people.”

“I guess so,” Spencer said over his cup of coffee, getting distracted by the mess of books Sam had scattered about the table. He frowned, squinting to read a few of the covers and asked, “What are you doing here so late?”

Sam’s shrugged, his eyebrows pinching together as he looked down, having forgotten they were there for a moment. “I got decimated in rounds today, and I need to step it up for tomorrow,” he sighed, shuffling his papers around, remembering his epic fight with Crowley once again, “Something about metabolic disorders… I just can’t seem to grasp it.”

“Do you need some help?” Spencer asked without hesitation, and Sam looked up at him, stunned, “I know I’m not that kind of doctor, but I have a personal interest in inherited genetic conditions. I find them fascinating.”

Sam raised a brow, “You study metabolic diseases for fun?”

“Mostly multifactorial inheritance disorders, but I’ve spent some time researching chromosome and monogenetic disorders.” Spencer sidled his chair a little closer, looking up at Sam with wide, imploring eyes, as though all he wanted to do in that moment was help him study, “I’d be happy to help, unless I’d be bothering you?”

Sam couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d been killing himself for the past few weeks just trying to work up the nerve to talk to this guy, and he failed every single time. Now, at midnight on a Wednesday, while burying himself in his studies, not only was he able to have a conversation with Spencer, but the young doctor was actually offering to help him. To spend time with him.

How was this his life?

He decided to roll with it. Spencer was here, he was having a real, honest to god conversation with him, and Sam wasn’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth. He slid one of the books over towards Spencer. “Honestly, I would welcome it,” he said, “I’ve been at this for hours, and a fresh set of eyes might be exactly what I need.” He couldn’t help by smile, watching intently as Spencer dug into the medical journal, flipping pages at breakneck speed, “Where did you even come from?”

“Las Vegas, Nevada,” Spencer said, glibly.

 _Oh man,_ Sam thought helplessly, his stomach clenching uncomfortably when he realized that _he’s not just smart, he’s funny too._

“Don’t play dumb,” Sam said, his easy tone belying his internal monologue, “You know what I mean.”

“I’m a genius with an eidetic memory and I read exceptionally fast,” Spencer answered, tapping the folders in front of Sam, “And while I have no problem helping you, I’m not doing your work for you, so you better start focusing more on your studies, and less on me, or else I’m just going to read this journal for my own benefit.”

Sam couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled past his lips at Spencer’s authoritative tone. Apparently, he took studying seriously. “If you want to read the Journal of—” Sam tilted the book upwards so he could read the cover, smiling gleefully when Spencer shoved it back down, “Endocrine and Metabolic Disorders for shits and giggles, I’d be more than happy to let you.” Despite that, he turned back to his folders, sorting through them and trying to make some sense of the disordered mess, “But I appreciate the help, Doctor.”

“You can just call me Spencer,” his companion said softly, smiling though not looking up from the pages of the journal.

He felt lightheaded, and every word that passed Spencer’s lips had Sam’s heart skipping a beat. It still felt like a dream that he was even there. That he was personable, and funny, and delightfully nerdy. Sam, despite all of his anxiety, and all his misgivings leading up to this moment, felt himself relaxing, his nerves settling as the two of them dug into their respective books, and he looked up at Doctor Reid across the table and murmured sincerely, “Thanks, Spencer.”

“You’re welcome, Sam,” was his heartfelt reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there goes the first installment in the Hand Of God series! I hope you all enjoyed, and you'll be checking back in the next week or so for the second installment: October 2006: Missed Connections.
> 
> Otherwise known as: Sam thinks Spencer knows they're dating, but Spencer actually has no idea.
> 
> Thanks everyone, and as always, comments and kudos are appreciated! Toodles!


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